


We'll always have Paris

by Hino_Hatari



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Use of French language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-30
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 13:11:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2694299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hino_Hatari/pseuds/Hino_Hatari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sunday mornings in Paris were lazy breaks they allowed themselves to take every couple of months or so, whenever they both had the time, and whenever either of them felt it necessary. Paris was their haven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We'll always have Paris

**Author's Note:**

> This will be updated every Sunday.

Sunday mornings in Paris were lazy breaks they allowed themselves to take every couple of months or so, whenever they both had the time, and whenever either of them felt it necessary. Paris was their haven.

It wasn’t much the close proximity to London, where they could fly to in case of emergency at work, that made Paris the ideal place for lazy Sunday morning, nor was it the stereotype of it being the most romantic city in the world — neither of them was a romantic person by nature —, but there was a certain simple _joie de vivre_ , typically French, on Sundays.

James came out of their usual hotel room, wearing simple silk pajama trousers that hung loosely on his hips, waiting to fall at every step, and went to lean against the balcony, the warm morning sunshine of a Parisian summer frisking on his tanned torso. The street below was still dormant, the cars lined on each side of the road. He could vaguely smell the delicious scent of fresh morning baguettes from the _boulangerie_ down the street, and also cigarette.

He turned his head to see Q, sitting in the corner of the balcony, at the small white table they had breakfast on whenever they were here. He had his bare legs luxuriously resting on the other chair, a cigarette in his hand, James’ shirt covering his torso and an amused gleam in his eyes.

"Good Sunday, James," he purred, a stream of thin smoke escaping his lips and swirling away to the sky.

James smiled, and took his time to capture that beautiful portrait of his lover into his mind, and reminding himself that he had dozens of them already, as Q always left the bed before him to come out and smoke here.

"Hello, Q." James moved and removed Q’s feet from the other chair, long enough to sit, and Q rushed to put his feet crossed on James’ lap. "Should we go out and have a brunch?" 

Q shook his head as he handed him the cigarette, his long and slender fingers holding it so delicately, that poisonous flower that Q picked occasionally, usually after a night of good sex. James refused it with a tilt of his head and Q made a point of taking a long drag.

"We could stay here. Call for room service. Then we could go out, visit some galleries — you know I like galleries — maybe walk around the Tuileries," Q gently rubbed his foot on James’ thigh, his toes brushing James’ crotch lightly, without ever lingering, "shop around — for a change —, and then you will take me to a lovely restaurant, in some remote, quaint street that smells of authenticity and good cuisine, and you’ll take me back here and make love to me until it’s time for us to get the first flight back home tomorrow morning." 

James got a hold of the filthy foot and brought it up to kiss the inside of Q’s ankle, his blue eyes drowned in unconcealed lust and desire that Q didn’t fail to notice.

"Your wish is my command, Q," James’ voice was low, raw and dangerous, and it brought shivers all over Q’s skin, spreading like waves from his spine to his neck.

Q stomped the cigarette, half finished, into an ashtray and got up. “I’ll brush my teeth, while you order,” he leaned to press a kiss on James’ head and left. Bond followed him.

Q went to the en suite bathroom, decorated with old-fashion taste. He raised his arms above his head with some sort of grace that only ballerinas had, trapping his mess of hair between them. The sleeves for James’ shirt falling and revealing his pale wrists, and he tiptoed, as if his entire body had to follow the flow as he stretched the sleep out of him. Around him, the white marble and porcelain of the bathroom was painted with dark, black patterns of tree branches and leaves, rendering the image of Q completely black and white, almost surreal in its beauty.

Q turned, smiled at him, and shut the door.

James turned and called the reception.

James’ French accent was as perfect as a French accent could get. However, he knew it was nowhere as sensual as when Q spoke.

James had always been short seduction and subtle innuendos. Q was long, multi-syllabic words, and metaphors. 

Q was out of the bathroom by the time he finished ordering an Earl Grey for Q and a proper cup of coffee for himself, not one of those tiny espressos that French people had throughout the day.

"I am done smelling like bad nicotine," Q said and came to wrap his arms around James’ neck, and in return, he wrapped his around Q’s waist.

He pressed his lips against Q’s, testing and tasting. “Hmm … I like that on you.” He purred against those pink lips and Q smiled.

Somehow, they started moving, like every time Q had his arms around him like this. It was a simple dance of balancing from one foot to another, pressed against each other, in complete silence, and yet, to the rhythm of each other’s heartbeat.

It was such a simple matter of domesticity and familiarity, one that James had had for a brief moment, years ago, in Venice, and that disappeared into the dark waters of betrayal. But Q wouldn’t betray him. Q was here, with him, in his shirt, against his chest, in his arms, dancing with him, on a Sunday morning in Paris.


End file.
